PROLOGUE

THE PRINCE OF ETERNITY

He came to the tavern as yet another day ended, under a sunset that reminded him of autumn. An isolated tavern in southern Emaria; animal skins drying on racks outside, horses shivering and coughing in the stables behind. The noises from within: Laughter, yells, songs, more laughter. Twilight ever seemed an autumn to him, and night, always a winter.

Jokes ceased in midsentence when he entered the public room. Women looked askance when he passed by, and their men trembled for no reason. Animals did not love him; not for the tastiest scrap of meat would any dog approach him. Horses nickered when he came too close. Birds flew farther away from him than they did from other men.

Was it simply that visitors here, outlanders, were uncom­mon? He had crossed the half-filled room, approached the counter, and spoken with the proprietor. May I have a cup of cold brew? Would it be an imposition if I did a few magic tricks by which to pay for my lodgings? Yes, yes, I’ll wait until the singer has finished. I’d like to rest a moment, anyway.

He had taken a table in a corner and stared at the floor, allowing the other patrons time to accept him.

The singer, a young blond man with a lute well cared for, finished and retrieved the few coins that had been tossed to him. He sat then by the large fireplace to examine them and bite them. A fat woman with greasy brown hair approached the young man to ask if he wanted supper now; the great rolls of fat on her upper arms shivered, and perspiration dewed the mustache on her lips. The lutist gave her a coin.

The intruder finished his brew and stepped to the center of the room, placed his bag on a chair, withdrew objects from it, and set them on a table. A few faces looked away. Impatient jokes passed, and laughter erupted. Finally the stranger faced his audience.

“I am an illusionist,” he announced. “Allow me a few moments to charm and entertain you.”

He stood proudly, regarding his audience through narrowed eyes. He was a tall man, nobly made, perhaps in his late forties or early fifties, the gray entering his hair and beard but the eyes still bright and brilliant, and with no hint or betrayal of disease or weakness in his frame. Surely, thought some in the tavern, this is a high-born man brought low. Surely this is ex­tremely degrading for him, for surely he must once have known a life better than this.

There were soldiers in the tavern, a few young women, and men with the pallor of crime upon them. The intruder looked upon them and knew them all. The wonder of it had ceased long ago. Was it that souls migrated to new bodies after death? Or was it simply that this man here was related to the father or grandfather or a more ancient sire for whom he had done these same tricks generations ago?

“My name,” he announced, “is Eromedeus. My games, while very ancient, always seem new. Watch, and I will astonish you.” Look at them, he told himself. Look at that soldier, so far from home and farther yet from the dreams he once held for himself. Wouldn’t he love to embody the immortal fame he wishes for?

Look at that dog. A thief or robber or murderer? Wouldn’t he love to outlive his enemies, and outlive their sons and their sons’ sons, so that his crimes would become more forgotten than the first breath of life? What better refuge could he hope for?

And look at that young woman. Is she ill? She is dying. She’s trying to earn money any way she can, but she must hurry; there isn’t much time left for her. Time? Dear young woman, I would gladly trade you this ancient soul for your decaying body. But you would refuse. At the first hint, the first intimation, you’d cower in fear, and you’d clutch your dying body and hold it with all the fervor of a fish on a bank working its gills, dying the faster as it tries to live. You’d no more trade souls with me than you’d trade your past life for all the gold of all kings. Because it’s yours. Your life. And you’re a fool. You’re all fools. I’m a fool.

“My first attempt, then, at trying your patience.…” Eromedeus showed his audience two empty halves of a wal­nut, turned them this way and that so that all could be certain what they were. Then he cupped them between his palms, shook his hands, and pulled them apart to reveal a whole fresh walnut.

Grunts and faint smiles.

Eromedeus begged their indulgence. He cupped the whole walnut between his hands once more, shook, then released three walnuts upon the stained tabletop.

Voices called for beer or spread gossip.

Eromedeus took up a pink silk cloth, bunched it in his right hand, and tapped his fist with his left hand. When he opened his fingers, the silk cloth stood upright, balanced in his palm and twined like a rope, as sturdy as wood.

Now came some honest smiles—but no coins.

He bunched the silk again, tapped his fist. Opening his hand this time, he revealed, not a stalk of silk twine, but a flaming pink pillar—a short rope of flame, burning and flashing, erect in his naked palm.

That won them over. There was great applause for him, and three coppers.

Eromedeus carefully brought his cupped left hand down upon the right, enclosing the flame, pressing it until it was trapped, glowing between his long fingers. A word, and he opened his hand instantly—to let a butterfly flutter free.

More applause. More coppers.

Eromedeus bowed thankfully.

A rogue in the back, proud in his Emarian cavalry uniform, drew a knife from his belt and without warning threw it toward Eromedeus. It bit accurately into the wooden table before him. There was a hush, but Eromedeus did not assume this to be a threat.

“Show us what you can do with that knife!” came the drunken challenge.

Eromedeus smiled. He reached into his bag, withdrew his hands, and showed them to be empty. He began to move his hands softly at first but then more rapidly, until the deep tan of his skin created a blur around the hilt and blade. With a word, Eromedeus stepped back and pointed to the knife. It was no longer a knife. It had been transformed into a miniature pear tree with four ripe fruits among its leaves. Eromedeus plucked the pears, all four of them, and threw them to his audience. The ill young woman bit into one and pronounced it to be a perfectly fine, fresh pear.

The rogue who had thrown the knife stood up, glowering. “Are you a sorcerer?” he asked.

The word brought a nervous tension upon the house, but Eromedeus shook his head and showed the crowd his open palms. No scars; no marks; no brands.

“I am no sorcerer. Have I done evil?” he asked. “I am no charlatan, but neither am I some wizard whom you should fear. My tricks are feats of the imagination.”

That seemed to reassure them, although it was a lie.

“Would you like your knife returned?” he asked the cavalryman.

“If you please!” came the response.

Eromedeus repeated the blurring motion with his hands, and the miniature pear tree once more became the knife—with part of the hilt missing.

“My apologies,” Eromedeus called to the soldier, holding up the weapon by its blade. “I gave away the pears, so your knife is no longer whole.” He flipped the weapon across the room; heads ducked as it spun through the air and dug itself into the wall beside the soldier’s face.

The cavalryman drew it out and examined it, shook his head suspiciously, but returned it to his belt. However, he had to take it out again to show his companions and others seated nearby.

One of those companions was a fat, jovial man who now reared up and waved to Eromedeus. “Come over here!” he bellowed. “I’d like to buy you dinner!”

Eromedeus bowed his head, pushed his magical objects into his bag, and collected his coppers—and gold—before crossing the room.

“Sit down, sit down,” urged the fat man amiably. He pulled an empty chair from an adjoining table, and his comrades shuffled to make room for the newcomer.

“I am Sir Jors,” the obese man introduced himself, slapping Eromedeus on the back. “Your tricks are wonderful.”

“Thank you.” Eromedeus did not miss the double stars sewn onto the man’s shoulder patches, indicating his high aristocratic standing in this country. Probably he had had little military training—but likely he had money, much money, and as friend to the highly seated, he held influence, even over this group of sharp-edged ruffians.

“Ilma!” called Sir Jors. “Bring him a dinner! Will you have dinner?”

“Certainly.”

“Bring him a dinner! And more beer!”

Eromedeus studied the faces of the other four, all of them soldiers of the Emarian army, and found scant trust in them. But the knife had been returned to its belt.

“Yes, those are excellent tricks,” said Sir Jors enthusiastically. “Are you certain you’re not a sorcerer? No, no—I mean no offense! Have you been long in Emaria?”

A thousand years, thought Eromedeus. “Not long,” he answered in a friendly tone. “I’ve traveled a great deal, but seldom this far north.”

“You must come with us to the capital.”

A few of his companions gave Sir Jors sharp looks, but the nobleman was clearly in command. “Yes, yes,” he insisted. “Have you ever met King Nutatharis?”

“I have not had that honor, no.”

“He loves wise men and tricksters and entertainers of all sorts. I’m sure he’ll reward you generously for your skills. Perhaps make a home for you in his court.”

“He’ll torture him,” promised the man with the ruined knife. “Learn what he has and feed his pieces to the dogs.” He showed his teeth to the other bucklers there, and there were grins around the table.

“Nonsense!” Sir Jors made a sound in his throat and confided to Eromedeus, “He’s been angry with the king because his brother was a traitor! What do you expect? Won’t you come to see our king? He’ll love your display. And you’ll help me get into his good graces by introducing you.”

Eromedeus gave the proposal some thought. Ilma, the overweight woman with the damp mustache, pushed her way to them and set on the table a plate of beef cuts and vegetables and two gourds of beer.

“Eat up!” Sir Jors commanded. “We’re riding back to Lasura tonight. King Nutatharis will be glad to receive you.”

Eromedeus began eating. Nutatharis, he thought. He was but a boy when I was last in Emaria. Scar on his left cheek. Thrown from the saddle. Now he’s king. And a temperamental despot, no doubt. Dangerous man. His great-great-grandfather was that pimp for the Nusarian regiments. His grandfather tried to kill me on the wharves of Elpet after he’d stolen the throne. Became angry when I turned his sword into a chestnut tree.…